On the Lam from the Law
by bookstvnerdlove
Summary: Lieutenant Duckling, Time Travel AU. Lieutenant Killian Jones falls through a time portal and finds himself in a Land Without Magic. Who does he find and how will he get back?
1. On the Lam from the Law

**Lieutenant Ducking, time travel AU**

**Disclaimer: own nothing, abc and adam/eddy, your characters give me life.**

_(I have been listening to a lot of The Decemberists the past two weeks. I think The Bagman's Gambit is my current fave song. This idea has been in my head since Good Form aired, even though I was not even going to start writing CS fic at the time. I got sucked in and now here it is. I hope you enjoy!)_

She finds him slumped against the brick wall in some alley off the restaurant where she sometimes washes dishes. The kitchen staff doesn't seem to care that she gave them a fake name and they pay her in cash. She stops by whenever she needs a bit of money and they give her a few hours of work. She likes having a place she can go, especially when it rains, since sleeping in wet clothes is never fun.

She has some fresh new bills in her jacket pocket and plans to buy a bus ticket as far away as possible, using her meager savings. She heard one of the kids at the shelter she stayed in last night talking about California, tempting her to join him. (_Swan, you don't understand. It's sunny, like all the time. And warm. It almost never rains. And you can actually swim in the ocean without freezing._) She thinks she might like the sunshine, but she is unsure of the company.

She is deep in contemplation of San Diego versus Los Angeles when she crashes into a linen and boot-clad leg and lands knees and arms down on the pavement. She starts to yell (_What the hell?_) but quickly quiets when she realizes the person that she tripped over is in no shape to respond. The first thing she notices is his clothes, which certainly stand out. He is wearing something that looks straight out of one of those historical reenactment groups, navy blue wool coat with a yellow collar, white linen vest, and some sort of black cloth tied at his throat.

(She once spent some time with a foster family big into those all-day festivals where the men replayed some long ago battle and the women stood along the side, sipping lemonade and laughing happily at their husbands and sons. It was the kind of family bonding event they made her attend, but she knew even then, that she would not be there for long so what was the point?)

His hair is long, slipping out of a ponytail and falling into his eyes – _Seriously, a ponytail, dude_ – she mutters to herself as she leans over to try and wake him up. He doesn't respond to her queries – _Hey, what's your name? Come on, wake up! This alley is filthy. Do you have a name?_ – and he is murmuring goes to brush his hair out of his face and his skin is feverish, burning hot. His eyes jump open and she stares into them, unfocused, but startlingly blue. They quickly close and she stands up.

She is going to leave, because what else can she do, really, she's got her own problems to deal with and she's got to leave Portland soon because it won't be long before her social worker and the police find her.

Then she hears, _brother, brother, no_, in an accented voice, the anguish quite clear in his tone.

This guy has family, she thinks, and possibly some tragedy. And she sighs; knowing that she can't leave him there. Not when there might be somebody, out there in the city, looking for him. Somebody who cares for him more than her last foster parents cared about her.

The money she received today from the restaurant burns a hole in her pocket (_So much for that bus ticket, Swan_) and she leans down again. This time she grabs his arm and places it around her shoulders and pushes up with all her strength.

Thankfully his body seems to be somewhat mobile and while he leans heavily against her, she is able to walk them both to the nearest motel for a room. She knows this place well. They take cash, they're cheap, and they don't ask any questions. She also knows exactly how to pick the locks on the doors to scrounge for food and clothes.

Once he is settled, she leaves to go find some food and medicine for his fever. When she returns, trying to open the door quietly, but he still wakes up, bolting up in bed like something has startled him.

"I'm sorry," she says, and holds up the bag with a couple sandwiches, half-full water bottles, and Advil. "But I've brought some sustenance."

He tries to speak but his throat is so dry, so he only nods in thanks.

"It's not much," she replies apologetically as she sits down next to him, cross legged, and spills the food onto the bed. "But it will have to do."

He attacks his food like a person who has not eaten in weeks. She begins to wonder exactly how long he has been wandering the streets of Portland. She's about to ask him when he finally looks up from his food and speaks.

"I've fallen through some sort of magical portal," he says. "I must find a way to get back to my brother. Tell me, miss, is there a seer or a wizard in your land that you can direct me towards?"

She's heard a lot of fantastic stories over the years. Hell, she's told some of them herself. There can be something liberating about creating a false past. And when you move around as much as she has, there seems to be no point in telling anybody the truth. So she's not fazed by his delivery, though she sincerely doubts the existence of magic.

"Look, I get it. We're all running away from something. You can tell me when you're ready," she says.

It occurs to him that she does not believe his story. He can see it in her eyes, this blonde haired goddess with spectacles perched on her nose. Before, in his delirium, he noticed her hair (golden and shining) and her voice (frantic with worry for him). But her features were not distinct until the strange tablets she gave him started to clear the haze from his mind.

Studying her intently while she finishes her food (such a strange configuration of meat and vegetables), he finds her manner of dress quite provocative with her scandalously short gown and jacket with such strange metallic accents. Liam would never approve of her. He's not even sure that he approves of her. She certainly is not like any of the young misses who have dropped their handkerchiefs for him back in his realm. But she has extended him a kindness, one that he will not quickly forget.

He wants to tell her that making up tales such as the one he just shared would be bad form. But somehow he knows she wouldn't respond well to it. So he just says, "My name is Killian. Lieutenant Killian Jones."

She looks at him for a long moment before nodding, almost as if to herself, and she says, "I'm Emma Swan, _Leftenant_ Jones. But around here we just say lieutenant." He feels as though she is somehow amused by him, with her strange cadence of speech and laughing eyes.

He has a short reprieve, as she – _Emma, he replays the name over and over in his mind_ – appears content to finish eating in silence. He allows his eyes to wander around the room in this strange inn, in this land that does not appear to have any magic. The furniture is quite baffling, he thinks, as he runs his hand along the frame if the bed. At a glance, it appears to be made of a sturdy, fine walnut. But as his fingers glide along, the material is too smooth to the touch and he even deciphers a touch of shine to the material.

Will he ever see his brother again? He pushes down the panic that comes at that thought. He will make it back to his brother.

(The last thing he remembers is Neverland, dreamshade [_oh gods, Liam_], Peter Pan, and how he almost lost his brother. But the two of them made it back to The Jewel and they were flying with the Pegasus sail back to their realm. And then there was a bright flash of light, and here he landed. Maybe this was the price the boy had mentioned. Maybe this was some kind of nightmare land, being separated from his blood as punishment. He found his way here, so there must be magic in this land. She just doesn't believe. He'll convince her. Somehow.)

Once their meal is finished, he can feel her eyes upon him again. He glances up to find her eyeing his clothing, which was thankfully dry again. "We really need to find you some different clothes," she says and peculiar feeling washes over him, her speculative glance making him want to blush.

"I fail to comprehend exactly what is so wrong with my uniform, Miss Swan," he responds stiffly, trying to combat this sensation that she somehow finds him wanting.

"Miss Swan," she laughs lightly, "My name is Emma, just Emma."

"Fine then, Emma. Where do you suggest we procure some new attire for me?" He bites out, aware that he sounds exactly as priggish as Liam and the other men sometimes claim he is. He just does not know what to make of this young woman and her world. And he fears greatly that she will continue to laugh at him and that he will never make it home.

Her eyes soften a bit at his tone and she replies, "Come on, Killian, We'll go find something. It'll be fun." She walks to the door, but turns back quickly to say, "Just leave your coat here. The rest of your uniform will have to do."

His coat is still wet anyway, laying out to dry on a chair, so he stands up and follows her out the door.

She walks quickly along the walkway outside the door and she's talking to him quietly, "I should have remembered to grab some clothes when I went for food, but don't worry. It won't take long. I remember seeing some jeans and a tee-shirt in the room a few doors away."

Before he realizes what she's doing, she pulls out a pin from her hair and inserts it into the door handle.

"What are you doing?" He hisses quietly, again acutely aware of his tone.

She shushes him, "Do you want to get us in trouble? What do you think I'm doing?" She asks, looking at him over her shoulder, giving him a quick wink.

He is very certain that breaking into this room is very bad form. So he stands along the walkway, back ramrod straight, while she enters the room. She looks back at him one more time and raises her eyebrow when she realizes that he is not following her. He shrugs and says, "I will remain out here and stand guard. Please, hurry."

She just smiles at him and then closes the door quickly.

(He finds her utterly fascinating, with her quick smiles and eyes that laugh on the surface while not reaching too deep. She must be lonely, he thinks, to take care of a stranger, while she is obviously in such reduced circumstances that she is stealing food and clothes. He suddenly wishes that he could take her with him, back to his realm. Liam had given him a home after their father left him on that ship, so many years ago. He could also give her a home, and save her from this life of petty thievery.)

He laughs to himself at the ridiculous though just as she opens the door.

"Come on, she says, let's get back to our room."

Once back, she hands over a ball of fabric, "I found you a shirt and shorts you can sleep in, and then some pants for daytime." She yawns, " Let's go to sleep and then we can work on how to get you home tomorrow."

She wakes up on her side, curled into the back of a young man sleeping next to her. Just for a moment, she leans into him, feeling the sleep heat wafting from his body, comforting her. She fights the urge to slide her arms around his waist and forces her body in the other direction, rolling onto her back. Blinking several times to regain her bearings, she looks again over to the other side of the bed, the activities of the day before falling into place. Finding the young man (_Killian, she reminds herself_); spending most of her money on the motel room and ransacking the place for food and clothes. (And of course, his story about portals and magic. Who could forget that?)

She prides herself on being able to spot a liar. It's in the eyes and the voice; she is able to pick up on the nuances that are created during the telling of a lie. It comes back to her, this pure honesty that he exudes when he speaks; that earnest tone, and those wide blue eyes lacking any form of guile. She still does not believe in magic, but she believes that he believes.

(She's trying to ignore the feeling she gets when their eyes meet, this sensation that they are meant to know each other. That he can provide her that connection she has been craving her whole life; that with him by her side, she can relax, just a little bit. It might nonsensical, though certainly no more than his belief in the supernatural.)

The question that kept her awake the better part of the evening was simple. How in the hell is she going to help him? Sliding out of bed, carefully, quietly, trying not to wake him too soon, she starts to think through her plan. She had only been able to pay for one night here, so they had to find some other play to camp out. Looking at the clock on the bedside table, she realizes that it is almost time for housekeeping to come by.

She grabs a quick shower while she can (she is never sure when her next one will be) and throws her hair into a ponytail, since the motel failed to provide a blow drier. Once she is done, she finds Killian awake, sitting up in bed with his hair sticking up, and worry written on his features.

She suddenly feels so awkward, just standing there, so she clears her throat to get his attention and then, "Why don't you grab a shower? Then I know of a place we can go and plan our next step."

He blinks his eyes several times as if trying to decipher her speech and finally nods, though when he walks over to the shower he just stands there staring at the handles. His eyes fall carefully over each piece of metal, his hands following along, testing the knobs but not turning them.

She is about to jump in and explain to him how the fixtures in the shower are so old and need to be turned just the right way, when he appears to figure out the tick.

Later, when they are sitting at the coffee shop nearby, coffee hot and pastries in her purse for later, he starts talking about his brother, Liam, telling her tales of their time spent together on his ship when they were young. (He never mentions parents, which only enhances her knowledge that somehow they are the same.)

She hates talking about herself, but when he asks her about her family; she sees no malice in his demeanor, and she answers as honestly as possible. Understanding, pure and simple, flashes in his eyes as she shares the tale; being found by the side of the road to finally running away from her last home.

It happens when they are leaving the shop, walking down a quiet street in the direction of a tarot shop he had spotted on their way. (Emma, this Madam Jade can give me some answers.) She's highly doubtful the charlatan owning the shop can do any good, but he insists that they give her a chance.

He had been telling her about sailing, explaining different knots to her, and discussing the merits of celestial navigation. Suddenly, he stops walking and she turns to face him. "You could come back with me, you know," he says.

"I don't understand," she searches his face for any hint of a lie.

"I know you don't believe me, but it is all true," He pleads with her, "I need to find a way to travel back to my land. You could come with me. My brother would speak to the Admiralty. We could give you a place on our ship and you could stop stealing so much. Really, Emma, such bad form and all that."

He is so earnest, eyes big and blue, lashes blinking several times, waiting for her to say something, anything. She swallows several times before even attempting to speak. "I-, I-, you-", the necessary words stuck in her throat. She takes the promise of family so seriously.

He just smiles at her and repeats, "If we can find a way, we go together. You will have to give up your criminal tendencies of course, but we can work on that."

A feeling grabs root in her heart, painful and full of longing and hope and home that she doesn't think. She just grabs him by the collar of his shirt and with the momentum of their bodies, their lips crash together. The force of the connection instantly softens as their surprise eases into a cautious exploration. And just as suddenly, there is a bright burst of light that throws her back, into the brick wall, body sliding down until she sits, stunned.

He disappears. One second he is standing there, stunned expression matching the ways she feels inside. The next, he is gone, as if he never existed.

(He wakes up, lying prone on the deck of The Jewel of the Realm, Liam slapping his face, screaming his name. Killian, Killian, wake up brother.)

She shakes her head several times as she attempts to process the scene before her. Her bag, and all it's contents, strewn across the ground. And she has this sensation that she is missing something or someone.

A few moments later, she regains enough strength to stand up. She starts walking down the street, no real direction in mind. The more steps she takes, the further away her thoughts of absence become.

She keeps walking until she spots an old yellow VW bug parked. She looks around quickly to spot any lurkers, but the area looks deserted enough. Hope bursts within her as she thinks that if she can get the car to start maybe, just maybe, she can get down to California after all.

_A/N: Hey y'all. Hope you enjoyed this little ficlet. My goal was to have this be just a short little interlude that could still fit within the canon of the show since I'm not plotty enough to go full on AU. I love the idea that young Emma and young Killian would have also enjoyed an instant connection, even if for different reasons than within show canon. And I also love the idea that upright navy man Killian wouldn't quite know how to respond to petty thief Emma. Anyway, thanks for reading! Much love. xoxo. _


	2. A Whisper of Memory (Stop Haunting Me)

**Epilogue: A Whisper of Memory (Stop Haunting Me)**

Sometimes she dreams about the color blue, of piercing eyes and earnest voices, of comfort and home and a hint of longing. When she awakens, aware that it was just a dream, she feels the loneliness again, deep in her gut.

(She doesn't cry. She never cries.)

Her first night out, she finds a dusty old bar and walks right up to the tender, boldly requesting a shot of bourbon. She has a spot in a halfway home, arranged by her social worker and the local legal aid that had provided her a lawyer to begin with. She has a curfew but there are few hours to kill and the last thing she wants to do is go and face a lonely night in a new bed.

Even though she's clearly underage - he's not that old himself, still has a youthful gait and a permanent smirk across his lips - he serves her anyway. Maybe he's the same as her, alone and older than his age. Maybe something in his life shaped him, aged him, the same way that prison forced it's knowledge upon her. Creating lines around her eyes, she can feel them every morning as she splashes cold water on her face. Or her cheeks, frozen in the same weary expression that she saw in the mirror every day, until she stopped looking at her reflection.

(At least in prison it felt natural to be that isolated. In the hours she's been out the weight of it is staggering.)

His air familiar, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and eyes the same color of her dreams. She flirts with him, relentlessly, fluttering her eyelashes and leaning across the bar, her shirt riding low. Until he accepts her offer - it really doesn't take him long - and they find a few brief moments with her back against the wall and their clothes only slightly mussed.

(With every thrust she erases memories - of giving birth, the shackles on her leg, of the way the handcuffs felt closing around her wrists, of the last time with Neal, in the hotel, happy and eyes closed hearing the call of home.)

When they both return to the bar, there's a new customer, but as Emma makes her way to the door he grabs her wrist and pulls her back. He slides a card into her hand and says, "I'm not just a bartender and maybe I can help."

She looks down at a phone number and the words _Bail Bonds_ and _Private Investigator_ jump out.

(She calls a week later and they never speak of the five minutes spent losing themselves after that.)

. . .

He dreams of long golden hair and smiles. Not long after he rebels against the corrupt monarch that led to his brother's demise, he begins to pay for the pleasure of female company at taverns along his route. It's easier, he finds, to exchange coin for service. Impartial and quickly over, he learns about quick pleasures and no need for pretty words.

(Though sometimes he tries to charm and fails miserably.)

When he begins they are always blonde. He notices them from across the tavern, long and curling hair, tumbling over their shoulders, or down their backs, corsets tight and dresses low. From a distance, they appear fresh and young, comforting and appealing. It draws him in, this sensation that he _knows_ them, he _understands_ them. Pouring rum down his throat to ease the tightness in his heart, he approaches them and finds mindless joy for brief moments.

(When he wakes up, their hair is the wrong color, their eyes are too hard, and their faces never as young as they should be.)

As the years go by, their hair turns darker; their eyes darker, their faces take a different shape. He grows accustomed to his new path, he grows confident in his ability to charm with lessons taught and remembered well. They teach him new tricks, ways to please, he spends more coin – lavish jewels and silk scarves, colorful and bright. The more he purchases for them, the less he does for himself until everything he wears is black – leather and vests and billowing shirts, armed with sword and knives and full of bravado.

(Liam would never know him, now, a thought that both comforts and frightens.)

He meets a woman soon after – older, with wisdom and sadness and desire in her eyes. He regales her with tales of the sea, pulling her more deeply under his spell, and when he purchases her it's not coin or silks or jewels. He pays her with passage away from responsibility and a chance to begin anew.

(Until it stops and he is alone once more.)

. . .

They meet again, though neither aware that it is _again, _with her hand in his hair – pulling to cause pain and a knife at his throat – and his charm on display to disguise and beguile. And if both of them feel that immediate sense of belonging when their eyes meet – they surely don't admit it to anyone. Not even themselves.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, now this story is really completed. I couldn't help but write a little bit about how they were both influenced by their time together, even if they don't have any memory of it. I hope you enjoyed this revisit to my story. xoxo._


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